


Love Sweet As Poison

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - I reread often, Romance, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of Denethor and Finduilas. A perverse romance—be amazed that Boromir and Faramir turned out as well as they did! Rated for adult themes and sex/sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

"Open the window, if you would, my dear." The voice was wan, a mere echo of its former self, and matched well with the wasted, bedridden figure from which it emanated. Finduilas raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, but she rose silently and did his bidding. The sun was setting, and the city below lay under a maze of crossing shadows. "Thank you," Ecthelion sighed, without ever opening his eyes.

  


"'Tis drafty," Finduilas replied. "Your health is ill enough, Father, without risking the cold air!" 

  


"You have spoken again with the physicians, I see!" the aged steward replied with weary exasperation. "My health, as you call it, shall not improve whether the air be cold or warm, so I see no reason to remain shut up in this room when it is stifling." To which she could say nothing, for all of Gondor knew well that Ecthelion was dying. He had been for several months now, and how long he would linger, none knew. Since an orc blade had pierced his lungs twenty years earlier, he had suffered a number of respiratory ailments, but being a strong man and a stubborn one, he had weathered them well enough. 

  


But age had finally aggravated the condition, and for awhile, when this final illness had begun, he had spat blood enough to fill basins. Of late, though, he could not find the strength for such efforts, and the fluids filled his lungs, slowly suffocating him. _'Tis like to consumption_ , the healers had said, and gave him 'til the end of the week, perhaps, and that with the blessing of a power far greater than they. None of this was secret, and it would have been worse than useless to pretend otherwise in any case, for her father-in-law took a dim view of those who sought to shield him from the truth, or who minced about him, cringing as they sought to ignore his condition. 

  


But of late, such fine contempt cost him too much strength to raise, and he lay more often in silence, wandering, perhaps, in that twilight realm between life and death. Soon he would cross out of that shadowy place and, freed of his tethers, become a wayfarer into the last unknown. Finduilas herself never spoke of the end which drew nearer with each day, but neither did she seek to steer him from thoughts of death if he voiced them in her presence. It was not her place to do so (much though she would have preferred to avoid the topic altogether) and she sensed that the old man needed to say such things, to relinquish in measures his hold upon Arda. And if her heart bled and trembled within her breast, Ecthelion seemed immune to fear. He was simply exhausted, and waited now for the struggle to end. _I only wish that I could face his death with as much equanimity as he displays. To sit here, day after day, and watch his strength fail and know that he is aware of it all the while...! Ah, how I shall miss you Ecthelion, and your courage!  
_

Wordlessly, she reached out and grasped his hand, squeezing gently, and Ecthelion opened glowing grey-green eyes, and turned his head slightly to look at her. "My dear girl!" he murmured, and then fell silent, closing his eyes again, apparently unable to continue. They sat still for some time, when at last, he said softly, "Tell me how fare my grandchildren today."

  


"They send their love," she replied, striving to maintain a normal tone of voice as she obeyed this request. "Boromir does, at least, but he speaks also for his brother in all things." Her elder son, at five years of age, was quite possessive of his younger brother, and often he said "we" instead of "I," meaning that he took Faramir's silence for like-mindedness. _And who knows, but that he may discern something in the other's gaze that I do not,_ she thought. Faramir was only a few months past his first year, but already he displayed an active curiosity unusual in so young a child. There was something captivating about him, and about the way that he looked at people and reacted to their voices. And unlike adults, who responded with a charmed perplexity, Boromir found nothing odd in his brother's manner, accepting all as perfectly natural. Finduilas had listened to him talk for hours to Faramir, though the other might say only a word or two at long intervals; he simply never seemed to tire of the younger boy's presence.

  


_If only I could say the same of his father,_ Finduilas thought aggrievedly. For Denethor, though conscientious in his duties as a father, had never showed overmuch interest in either boy. _But perhaps that is now changing._ Aloud, she continued, "I think Denethor has lately begun to warm to him now that he can speak at some length and ask questions."

  


"Has he indeed?" Ecthelion replied with a faint smile. "That is good."

  


"Aye, it is. It gives me hope, at least, that when Faramir begins to talk as well, then Denethor will begin to have a greater interest in him, too."

  


"Doubtless," the steward replied, opening his eyes once more to pin her under his arresting gaze for a long, considerate moment, and Finduilas felt her chest constrict with grief. "And you, Finduilas, how fare you?" he asked softly. "Do you feel well?"

  


With a nervous laugh, she demurred, replying, "Am I well? Should I not be the one to ask you that?"

  


"Have the physicians at least found something to ease your latest symptoms?" Ecthelion demanded, ignoring her transparent attempt to turn the conversation back onto himself. 

  


"They say that I should rest," Finduilas replied, and the steward snorted in disgust for such useless advice.

  


"Rest! Will blindness be cured by rest?" For of late, Finduilas' attacks of severe anxiety and fear had been accompanied by brief interludes of blindness, though no one could discern anything wrong with her eyes. _Just as no one can discern any reason for the headaches, the fear, the hallucinations…._ The list went on, stretching back to the very year that she had married Denethor of Minas Tirith and removed to the Tower of the Guard from Dol Amroth. _Seven years' worth of misery!_ There were times when vertigo struck so suddenly, and the fear was so great, that she felt nauseated to the point of dry heaves. After such spells, the fatigue that habitually plagued her grew to such a terrible lassitude that she could scarcely move, and she felt as though a stone sat upon her breast, crushing her. And none of the physicians could find any cause for these strange and unpredictable symptoms, if symptoms they could properly be called when disease itself seemed absent. 

  


"I am well enough," Finduilas insisted. "One learns to endure all things, is that not so? But is there anything that I can do for you, Father? It grows late, and you must surely be tired," she said, eager to escape attention. _What is there to be said of my 'malady' after all?_

  


Ecthelion merely smiled as he gazed at her—a quiet, sorrowing smile, and said softly, "You can tell me of my son. How goes it between the two of you?" 

  


If Finduilas had liked not the prior turn of conversation, she found this one to be worse. Under the best of circumstances, she would have been at a loss as to how to say to Ecthelion's face all that she felt on the subject of his son, her husband. For hers was a political marriage, and both she and Denethor had been quite well aware that expediency and the need to strengthen ties among friendly powers had fostered their union. That was not in itself repugnant to her, for such was the fate of princes and their daughters, and neither she nor Denethor had any illusions in that respect. They had been bred to their duty, and were willing to do what was necessary for the peace of their household, and for the security of the children. 

  


But domestic peace came at the cost of silence, for Denethor was a private man by nature, not given to easy trust or many words, even among those closest to him. And though he saw clearly to the heart of what others left unsaid, his was a manipulative mind that knew not how to respond when there was no profit in such maneuvering. Thus he seemed unable to fathom her wayward moods, especially coupled as they were to illness from which he had never suffered. Indeed, she would say that he were incapable of understanding her at all, but for those brief moments in the heat of lust or love—often she knew not what to call those rare nights when sex was not merely a distraction for one or the other of them—when he looked at her truly. Nothing ever seemed to come of such moments, but in that fleeting time she felt herself utterly exposed in all respects. _And under that light that he throws upon me, I am blinded. I could be jealous, that all my days of watching him yield not a fraction of what insight he gains in a second, but it hurts too much!_

  


Realizing that Ecthelion was now watching her with narrowed eyes, she made haste to answer, "It goes. We have both of us been preoccupied of late… there is so much to do…." And she could not make herself finish it. Shaking her dark head, she drew a shaky breath and said huskily, "I am sorry, Father, I should not have reminded…."

  


The Steward was silent awhile longer, and she knew she had not succeeded in hiding her unhappiness with her clumsy and shameful misdirection. But Ecthelion only sighed, and squeezed her hand tightly ere the sigh became a cough. And when Finduilas leaned forward to help, he waved her away somewhat irritably. "Do not trouble yourself! 'Tis naught," he managed after a moment, leaning back wearily. "Ah, Finduilas, you must forgive Denethor if you can, for though he is an astute politician, I fear he has not a stone's wits in matters of the heart!" When Finduilas flushed darkly, ashamed, he continued as firmly as he could manage, "Nay, do not blush at the truth, dear girl. Think you that I do not know how difficult it can be to love him?" 

  


"He is a good man at heart," Finduilas murmured, habitually defending him. 

  


"I should hope so, for he is my son. But I know that he neglects you, fool that he is!" Ecthelion shook his head and tears ran from his eyes as another, more severe fit of coughing took him. This time, he did not try to push her away when she grasped his shoulders and snatched up a handkerchief for him. When at last the episode had ceased the cloth came away from his lips stained bloody, and Ecthelion lay panting shallowly, pale and drained of vitality. 

  


"I would I—" he began when he had caught his breath, but just at that moment, a knock sounded, and an esquire looked in. 

  


"My lord, my lady," the young man said by way of greeting. "The lord Denethor is here to see his father." Ecthelion grimaced slightly, but then he gave a slight nod of permission. With an effort of will, Finduilas composed herself, though her shoulders tensed as her husband strode in. The esquire closed the door behind them, and Finduilas rose formally. 

  


"My lord," she murmured. 

  


"Finduilas," Denethor replied in a low voice, eyes flicking briefly to her ere they riveted on his father's face. There was a pause, and then, "Would you excuse us? I would speak in private." So polite a request, so very neutral seeming, and yet she saw the dark flicker in those slate grey eyes. But none of that concern was for her, and she felt a sudden, violent urge to throw herself at him, to slap him or scream at him, just to remind him that she existed, so thoroughly did he ignore her now. 

  


But the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth was a lady, and so she said only, "Of course." Beside her, Ecthelion made a disgruntled noise that degenerated quickly into a spate of painful coughing, and she snatched at the glass of water upon the stand. But her hand encountered another on the way, and she froze as Denethor reached past her and picked it up, nodding a dismissal at her. And that was all.

  


Stumbling back in retreat, she felt her anger rise up sharply, only to die aborning. The wounded, fragile center of herself devoured it, turning it inward, transmuting it to bitterness that lay like glass shards upon her soul. "'Tis past dark and I should go hence to see Boromir and Faramir," she excused herself awkwardly, knowing that neither Denethor nor Ecthelion had ears for such face-saving efforts. Ecthelion, indeed, seemed likely to cough up his lungs or else choke on the bloody sputum, while Denethor's head was bent toward his father as he supported him; thus neither looked up to see her depart.

  


Once in the outer chamber, however, Finduilas felt her knees give out and she leaned hard back against the tapestried wall, one hand pressed over her mouth as she fought an hysterical desire to weep. _Wretched, foolish girl!_ she berated herself sternly, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Of course he would wish to speak alone with his father! There is so little time left them, and if no one else, Denethor has always loved Ecthelion. So she told herself, and yet felt cheated. Surely she had a right to be present, whatever matters Denethor might wish to discuss. _For who has sat at Ecthelion's side day after day? Who has watched him slide into the darkness behind the stars? Not Denethor, but Finduilas!_

  


Be ashamed! That was the other half of her speaking again, the part concerned with such trifling things as sanity within the walls of this city. _A father and son may have much to say that cannot be shared._ Clinging to that logic, she willed herself to shake off this spell, and felt that trembling hysteria ease somewhat, leaving her exhausted. From within, she heard Ecthelion's muffled voice rise darkly, intelligible at intervals: "… treat her so… my son, but… learn better to please…." And then another fit of coughing, as that tirade had doubtless disrupted his breathing. Finduilas felt her cheeks heat once more and she shoved away from the wall, going quickly out into the hall. She did not wish to stand there and listen to Ecthelion lecture his son over his marital failings. _Dear Ecthelion!_ she thought. _I think he is rather mystified by his son's coldness, for he is himself a generous soul._ Indeed, the steward had enjoyed a long and loving marriage until his wife's death some years before, and she could well understand his confused disapproval of Denethor's behavior. But she knew that if she let herself listen, it would only embitter her further or incite another fit of weakness. 

  


And so, resolutely, she pulled fast the mental doors upon her misery and focused instead on her excuse, intently working to convince herself of its validity. _I should have gone earlier to see the children, but I know not how much longer I shall be needed at Ecthelion's bedside. I have not yet seen him so weak, and I fear he shall not live to the end of this week. I should be remiss not to stay with him for as long as he wishes, for the children and I shall have years together, after all!_ So she thought, and yet felt a twinge, as of doubt born in that instant. But Finduilas shook her dark head violently, passing over the half-acknowledged premonition. _That is no excuse! They are my sons, and I love them, and they shall need me in the days to come._ That was something at least, and she felt a measure of composure return to her at the thought. _They do need me… and I need them!_

  


***

  


"My lady," the nurse, Gwinareth, curtsied as she entered the room, shifting Faramir in her arms for balance. Her younger son peered drowsily at her from beneath a tangle of jet black curls and he seemed to smile slightly as she spoke in return.

  


"Gwinareth. Hello Faramir," Finduilas responded, and then paused as a small form came hurtling out of the other room at the sound of her voice. Boromir had his father's restless energy, but as of yet, none of his control, and he was a high-spirited child. Finduilas smiled, staggering somewhat as he threw his arms about her as high as he could reach in a good-natured embrace. "Boromir, carefully love!" she admonished gently, blinking as she tried to steady herself. 

  


"Mother!" the boy replied gladly, eyes bright. "You came!"

  


"Of course I did, dear one," she reassured him, bending to hug him close, grateful for her son's innocent and unrestrained affection. 

  


"Faramir said my name today!" Boromir replied, excited, and Finduilas raised a brow at that as she took the sleepy Faramir from the other woman's arms.

  


"Did he now?" She looked from him to the nurse, and Gwinareth nodded proud confirmation. "Well, he does grow quickly, does he not? But he says nothing now, does he?" she paused a moment, making a show of looking out of the window. "Ah, I see! He is tired, and well he should be, for it is now past time that you slept, love."

  


"Is not!" came the instant reply.

  


"Aye, it is," Finduilas said persuasively. "See? 'Tis past dark, and the stars wheel high overhead now. Come, love, to bed with you and your brother!" Boromir made a disgruntled noise, but then seemed to forget his displeasure in an instant. He clung to her hand as she walked into the other room, trailed by Gwinareth. And as she gently laid Faramir in his bed and tucked him in, her elder son chattered about all that he had done that day. Much of his attention seemed to be dedicated to tormenting his nurse, but Gwinareth was a steady soul who had borne eight children already and knew well how to withstand the trials of young boys. _'Tis more than I could manage_ , Finduilas sighed inwardly. Though she adored her sons, and cherished the time she spent with them, she knew well that given her unpredictable condition, it was not safe for her to be alone with them all the time. _What would it do to them, if they saw their mother collapse screaming on the floor?_ It was a bitter thought, yet she knew they were better off under Gwinareth's watchful eyes than in her hands.

  


When she had tucked Boromir into his bed, she smiled at him as he gazed up at her, and she ruffled his dark hair fondly. "When will Papa come to see us?" he asked then, face clouded with anxiety. 

  


"Perhaps tomorrow, dear," Finduilas replied, striving for a light tone even as she flinched inwardly at the reminder of her husband. "Your father has much to do right now, but he thinks of you."

  


"Is it because of Grandfather?" Boromir asked in a small voice, eyes worried. "Will he… die?"

  


Finduilas bit her tongue, unwilling to say yea or nay, and uncertain whether she hesitated for her son's sake or for her own fragile hold on composure. In her mind, she saw clearly the image of Ecthelion's gaunt, worn face and heard once more his raucous cough. "Well," she said at last, "your grandfather is very ill. So Papa must make certain that everything in the city and in the kingdom is well."

  


"Oh. But he will come soon?"

  


"Soon enough, dear one," Finduilas responded, and hoped that Boromir did not see how much pain she bore. _Whatever his failings, I do not want my sons to hate their father. But neither do I wish for them to be disappointed by him! Should I have said so much, even knowing how little time means to a child?_ The bells rang loud just then, and Finduilas tensed, listening anxiously. But they did not deviate from their habitual pattern, faithfully tolling out the hour and nothing more. _The Steward yet lives, but for how long?_ She drew a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. _Soon, soon this city shall mourn, and who knows but that stones can cry?_ Finduilas forced a smile, hiding her pain and fear as she turned once more to Boromir and tousled his hair once again. "Good night, my sweet!" she murmured, stooping to kiss her elder son's brow. Boromir threw his arms about her neck and hugged her tightly ere he snuggled down under the light coverlet, and the nurse curtsied again as Finduilas swept out of the room, already steeling herself for the trials that came inevitably at day's end.


	2. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Denethor and Finduilas. A perverse romancebe amazed that Boromir and Faramir turned out as well as they did! Rated for adult themes and sex/sexuality.

Late that night upon her balcony in the Citadel, Finduilas shivered as the breeze stirred her light robe. Summer had come early to Gondor's chief city, and yet she felt chilled. _'Tis but a trick of my mind,_ she told herself, for after a long and draining day spent at Ecthelion's side, she almost always felt cold. But she would rather the cold than the horror that nightly choked her: horror of this jewel of a city, with its cold stones piled high. Ecthelion's presence had made this place bearable, but now that he prepared to depart it forever, she looked with fear and disgust upon those towers and gates that opened onto the dread of the east. 

  


_The East! The Nameless Land…!_ As a woman, her heart was filled with loathing for the eastern shadow that tainted Gondor; as a mother, she feared its effects, wondering if her weakness would be passed on to her sons, or whether the shadow would consume them as it had consumed her. And though she knew it was not real, still she swayed and flinched from the walls of the towers of the city, which seemed to expand and lean in towards her, filling the empty spaces of the night with their grim and silent presence. 

  


_Why does this happen? What is wrong with me?_ she asked herself bitterly, gripping the stone railing hard for support as she panted and sweated under the weight of her claustrophobic terror. _So many stones, and they have memories that do not fade! So much grief! So much pain borne by the east wind to imbue them with horror… !_ She squeezed her eyes shut. _I can feel their weight piled high all about me, crushing me into the darkness…!_ The railing beneath her hands felt chill as a gravestone, and as her eyes flew open once more, she saw it gleaming a pale, milky white that seemed to her sickly. 

  


With a moan, she tore her eyes away, seeking something steady in her shifting, vertiginous world. Out in the darkness blazoned forth the lamps of Minas Tirith, and Finduilas sighed with relief as her eyes fastened on them. On a warm night such as this, the fisher-folk of Dol Amroth would sail small boats out onto the Bay of Belfalas and hang lanterns over the water to attract the fish. _I would watch them for hours when I stood in the high tower of my father's city_ , she remembered, feeling her emotions surge and swell as the storm-tossed sea; and as she looked down upon the city, Finduilas could almost imagine that the beacons that lit the streets of Minas Tirith were lamps hung over the darkened waters.

  


But the zephyrs that came out of the south smelled of earth and orchards, rather than of the salt-tang of the ocean, and they carried no sound to her ears but the distant voices of the guards as they hailed each other on their rounds. Homesickness assailed her, but she welcomed that familiar and mundane pain, for it seemed to modulate her distress, rather as a single pure note causes all others to resonate with it. Memories of her coastal home welled up uncontainably: the southern breezes, the endless rush of waters upon the shores and the vast, open horizon of the sea.

  


With a sigh, she retreated into her marriage bower for comfort. When she had come hither from Dol Amroth, she had brought with her many of the things that reminded her of home. The room that she shared with her husband was furnished largely to her tastes, and so showed very little of the stone of which it was built. A large carpet, with an intricate and abstract pattern of swirls in warm, seaside colors, covered the flagstone floor; seascape tapestries hung from the walls; and upon the shelves and bureaus and trunks–all arranged carefully in the room to make the most of its airy space–stood various carvings in wood native to the region round Belfalas. Dol Amroth was justly famous for such art–smooth to the touch yet not cold, imbued with a warmth proper to living wood by their makers. 

  


Now, as she stood in silent thought by the hearth, she ran her hands over one of her favorite statues, a pair of dolphins in a light colored wood, and heavy was her spirit. _Denethor neglects you, fool that he is!_ Ecthelion's words echoed in her mind, and in the privacy of this place, which she had claimed and made as thoroughly her own as possible, she could not deny or explain away the truth of that declaration, nor her own unhappiness. 

  


In her calmer moments, she suspected that all of the warmth that Denethor might have had for those closest to him had been sublimated, invested instead in his love of Gondor itself. _A safe love_ , she thought bitterly, feeling tears well up once more. _A safe love, for Gondor cannot weep, and its demands come always from political logic, and never from a human heart._ Ashamed, she wiped at her eyes and reminded herself once again that she ought not to blame him for that. She had arrived late in his life, and a new mistress, especially one thrust upon him, could hardly expect to compete for his favor with his first love. 

  


_Especially considering my state! What am I but a nuisance and an embarrassment to him much of the time?_ Finduilas swallowed hard, feeling her misery coil tight in her chest. _No mystery to me that he prefers parchment to people when I am his wife. Perhaps that is why I hate this city, so well-beloved of my husband and my rival for his affections. If I did not care for him, then perhaps I, like Berúthiel or Erendis, could find contentment elsewhere, in other tasks or even… even in other arms!_ But she was not a Berúthiel, unassailable in her coldness; nor was she an Erendis who felt her blood run hot at her husband's faults and who could let that wrath spill over. _Nay, that would be an easier fate. Instead, I am condemned to love a stranger who is mine in name only!_

  


Indeed, it was a torment knowing how very much lay hidden behind a veil of silence, for much though she might wish it otherwise, she had been fascinated by Denethor from the first day that she had met him. There were depths to him, and she wanted nothing more than to uncover them; indeed, she would have done anything he asked if only he would trust her with himself. _But he seems to want nothing of me,_ she thought, frustrated. _Or rather, he does not want what I would give. He wants my silence, and sometimes my body, but what is that? He is a man like any other, and such desire alone doth not a husband make!_

  


A part of her knew that she ought not to continue to submit to his demands, that she should use what appeal she had to force him to speak to her. _But I shall not. I cannot, for I fear that he may simply cease to ask. And that I could not endure, for this bed is often the only thing that we share!_ And yet she still cared for him, though he felt naught for her. _Nay, that is not fair,_ she thought, staring down at a blue swirl in the carpet. _He does care for me, even love me, in his way, but…!_ She closed her eyes, feeling tears sting hot once more as a sob burst past her lips ere she covered her mouth, smothering others. _But… he does not love me as I wish to be loved. There it is, the simple truth! I cannot love him half so well, nor feel half so well loved when he keeps so much from me that a husband ought to share!_

  


And so she could not have answered Ecthelion's question that afternoon, for in truth there was very little that passed between them on any level. _Many are the wives who complain that they are misunderstood, but how many have borne children to a stranger?_ she wondered bitterly. How often had she heard that children were a woman's joy, the pride of her heart and the glory of her sex? How painful was it, then, to regret having had them? To feel that her love for them was tainted by the need to be needed by them? To know that in the end, their unconditional love notwithstanding, they could not provide her with what she wanted most: an understanding of her husband? 

  


For though they might eventually come to share some of their father's traits, in the end they were not Denethor. Out of hope and duty, she had borne heirs to the stewardship of Gondor. But now that her duty was fulfilled and hope had largely withered, she could not endure the thought of more children. _For what are they to him but burnt flesh, offerings upon the altar of Gondor's survival… nay, I could not! I love Boromir and Faramir, but I cannot have another of his children. I cannot!_ And so she drank guiltily every morning yarrow tea and kept her silence. It was her one secret, the one thing that she would never tell Denethor should he chance to ask, for she doubted he would understand. _An unnatural woman, he would think me_ , she thought miserably, hearing the echo of self-condemnation in that judgment. _And perhaps I am, for the Valar know that something evil works in me that I suffer this malaise._

  


For a time, she stood slouched, leaning upon the mantelpiece while her eyes stared sightlessly at the floor and her mind wandered once again in the happier memories of her beloved Dol Amroth. _Once, when I was young, I ran along the shore, pretending I was a gull that would fly over the ocean to the ends of the earth. What happened to that girl, who could outrace her brother Imrahil?_ she wondered. _What is this frailty that assails me ever, which poisons not only my body but my will?_ And especially now, as she struggled with Ecthelion's impending death and the upheaval that that would cause in the lives of all of Gondor's citizens, she railed at her weakness. _The wife of the lord of the city must never be found wanting, in any way!_ Finduilas thought bitterly.   


Yet already, she found it hard to stand straight, feeling the duties of a Steward's wife chafing her shoulders, bowing her back under their weight. And she felt so very inadequate to such tasks! Indeed, she felt herself _fragile_ , and hated the broken, pathetic creature she had become–hated the thin face that stared out of mirrors, hated the dark hair that only emphasized her pallor, hated the haunted look of her eyes and the nervous tension she radiated. _Ecthelion is dying, and soon others will look to me as Gondor's first lady… will look_ at _me!_

  


Thought of the pending ordeal of leeched her of what color she had, and she felt suddenly sick, considering all that would be required of her in the days following Ecthelion's inevitable death. _I need to lie down!_ Finduilas crawled onto the bed, curling up in the very center of it amidst the pillows and she pulled the blankets up to her chin, warding herself from the vicissitudes of her living nightmares, hoping that those that came tonight would be less frightening than reality. In truth, it was not the increase in her station, nor even the loss of a well-loved father-in-law that filled her with dread, but the thought of watching _Denethor_ work through his private grief. 

  


For though feeling came hard to him, Denethor did love his father, however restrained his displays of affection. And because he was so reticent, that grief would harden, would crystallize–like frozen hemlock, like mercury in his veins–poisoning him with darkness. _It will harden him, and already he is so grim and cold! Hard as the stone for which this realm is famous, and perhaps I ought not to be surprised. He was born among them, and they have shaped him to be like them: unyielding!_ Finduilas shivered again. _But however strong, a fortress of stone will sink and founder if built upon quicksand. Ecthelion's death will rock his foundations; indeed, it has already undermined him, I think. Have I strength enough for us both? For though I doubt that Denethor would know how to comfort another, he will need what consolation I can give when Ecthelion is no more!_  


Finduilas squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of salty tears, biting her lip so as not to let the sobs escape. It seemed utterly unfair to ask more of her when to face the day was challenge enough; indeed, it seemed cruel to demand of her such selfless love when her husband spared her so little and that a gift! _But I must try! For Ecthelion, and for myself. This place may fill me with a horror of its ways, cold and hard, made to endure against the evil of the East, but for better or for worse, this is now my home. And Denethor is my husband, though it hurts to love him. Why is it thus? Why should he be so hard to love?_ "I am so lonely here!" she whispered to the fire-lit silence.

  


Just then, she heard the door to the outer set of rooms open and shut, and her heart skipped an apprehensive beat. Listening carefully, she could just make out the scrape of boots on flagstone floors as someone–Denethor undoubtedly–moved about the study. Lying there, feigning sleep, she traced his path in her mind: he went first to the bureau to tidy the many papers strewn upon it, and probably also to deposit more for him to read in the morning; thence to the hearth to poke at the low fire as he thought over the events of the day, ordering them in his mind. And then he moved on to the table where Finduilas had earlier set a goblet of wine for him, as he was accustomed to drink one ere he retired. The familiar pattern of his routine unrolled in her mind without noticeable deviation, and at last, she heard his footsteps approach the bedroom door.

  


The handle turned, and she heard the door shut quietly with a _snick!_ Into the following silence, Denethor sighed softly as he draped his cloak on a peg, which audible complaint was uncharacteristic of him. Cloth rustled softly as he undressed, and then the bed creaked softly, and the mattress dipped as he climbed beneath the sheets. Finduilas felt the warmth of his body at her back as a balm against the chill that lived beneath her skin, and she held her breath, waiting to learn his intentions tonight. _Should I move? Should I touch him? Ah, I dare not! Denethor, will you not turn to me tonight? Say something at least, I beg!_

  


Denethor laid a hand upon her shoulder, and Finduilas caught her breath hopefully. He slid his hand down her arm, but then paused. For a long while she waited, sensing that some struggle took place within him where she could not quite see it. But then, with a soft sigh, he released her and turned away. The gap between them opened as he settled to one side, leaving her plenty of space, and she knew they would not speak ere the morning. After some time, she heard his breathing slow, and knew that he had fallen asleep. For a long while, Finduilas lay unmoving in the darkness, feeling much aggrieved and fairly sick with frustration. _A daughter of Amroth am I indeed! Ever waiting, and ever left wanting!_

  


It was still dark when Denethor rose some hours later to begin a new day. And then, when at last the outer chamber was silent, and the door had closed behind him firmly–when she was alone in fact in her bed–then only did she sleep. 


	3. Dulce e Decorum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Denethor and Finduilas. A perverse romancebe amazed that Boromir and Faramir turned out as well as they did! Rated for adult themes and sex/sexuality.

_Ithilien—once the jewel of Gondor's crown, it is now costly indeed,_ Denethor thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. It was once again late, and outside the sliver of a moon had risen, yet he had not finished with the day's reports, and his own notes were growing ever more detailed. Thus far, his only pause had been a brief visit to his father, and that had been hours ago. With a sigh, Denethor squeezed burning eyes shut, but his thoughts tumbled ever onward, chasing after details and logistical lines. 

  


_Ithilien!_ Ever since Thorongil's departure, Ecthelion had sought to strengthen the Ithilien guard, to use the relief bought with that naval victory to preserve and expand upon what Túrin had built. Denethor, as his father's eyes and ears, had been in and out of Ithilien more often than he cared to think about, and he knew well the difficulties that that company faced.

  


_It needs one with more than simple swordcraft and bravado to command effectively in that post, and such men are difficult to find_ , Denethor mused. So difficult, in fact, that until illness had intervened and brought all plans under reconsideration, Ecthelion had thought to give that command to his son. But with Denethor poised to assume his inheritance, another would be needed to fill that position. _And now it is my place to find him. Either that or break the company, but I doubt it would be half so useful in smaller units._ He shook his head and grimaced. _In truth,_ he decided grudgingly, _I could now use Thorongil._ For as much as it galled him to admit it, Ithilien would have been ideally suited to the man's talents. 

  


Of its own volition, his mind began to wander down that well-worn trail of speculation as to Thorongil's true identity, and in that long moment of idleness, other thoughts arose, mingling chaotically: _All of Anórien is open to pillaging if we cannot find another company to serve as outriders at Cair Andros…. Word from Poros has the land empty beyond it, but I know not whether I trust that judgment…. Rohan's emissary speaks no more of my father, but comes to me now and says "my lord steward"…._

  


Denethor shook himself and put a halt to his rambling thoughts as he gazed about the room. Ecthelion's study it had been, and soon it would be his alone for as long as his reign lasted. In spite of his grief over his father, he could not deny a sense of anticipation born of his own ambition. Nevertheless, caught in this transitory stage, waiting for Ecthelion's death, all events took on a surreal, nightmarish quality. For Denethor loved his father well, though many might have found it odd to speak thus of the heir to the stewardship of the realm. He had not the reputation for harboring intense feeling; but in truth, he simply had not the habit of acknowledging his feelings overmuch, nor of acting upon them when he did choose to recognize them. Always before, that had served him well, enabling him to see straight to the heart of any issue touching upon Gondor while remaining aloof from the impassioned rhetoric of others. Yet hard-edged and pragmatic as he was, Denethor yet struggled to maintain his usual cool demeanor in the face of the sublime cruelty of the situation.

  


_I must look to my father's death to gain what I most want: Gondor._ Guilt was an alien sensation, one that he little liked, and he berated himself for being absurd. To suffer guilt over the long hours that he had already invested to learn the art of gonvernance would be foolish indeed, for he owed his father—not to mention Gondor—his best efforts. It was not, therefore, attached to the stewardship itself, for Denethor had trained long years knowing that barring untimely death, the rod and rule of Gondor were of necessity his inheritance. 

  


Nevertheless, there was in his imminent ascendence a sense of shame that was bound up with Ecthelion somehow. Perhaps that guilt owed its origins to the feeling which had grown on him in the last week or so, namely, that in burying himself in the pursuit of his goals, he had drifted away from his father—that after all the long years of work and study, fighting and negotiating, he had fallen out of touch with Ecthelion. So far out of touch that Denethor feared that he knew not how to face the stranger who lay now upon his deathbed. In a son who had always counted himself loyal to his father, that was a painful truth to swallow, and he sought what comfort he could elsewhere.

  
__

At least he has Finduilas to watch over him. Indeed, she has been more at his side than I! That woke in him a most unpleasant feeling, one akin, perhaps, to what he had felt for Thorongil. But Denethor quickly quelled such unseemly emotions and told himself sternly that he had his duties, and that Ecthelion would not wish him to waste time languishing at his bedside while Gondor awaited decisions that only the steward's heir could make. And so he remained faithful to his tasks and did not go overmuch to see his father.   


_Of course, I can scarcely see straight for want of sleep… mayhap I would be of more use at his side than I am here._ He gave a pensive sigh at that and cast a glance once more about the study 'til his eyes fell upon the door that led to the inner hallway, and thence to his chambers. Finduilas would be there now, he knew, and in an instant his tired mind fastened upon her image.   


_You do wrong to treat her so! 'Tis shameful!_ Ecthelion had rebuked him yesterday. His pride still flinched at the memory, and in the deep places of his soul, something vital quailed at the sense of steady loss. But in truth, his father's lecture had not told him anything new. He knew well that he did not care for Finduilas as she wished, or indeed, as custom prescribed. But what could be done?

  


_I cannot change my heart to suit another's desire,_ he thought, mulling over his marriage. _Admittedly, I am not certain of what I feel for her._ With a wrinkle of his nose, he set down the pen and pushed the chair back from the bureau, uncharacteristically abandoning his proper tasks to the impulse of the moment. _Finduilas…._ Given how little time they spent together, and how little attention he devoted to his wife, one might expect Denethor's image of her to be vague, as if worn away by long disuse into a blurred recollection. Yet it was not so, though neither was that mental portrait reflective, perhaps, of reality. For although his glance strayed seldom to Finduilas, his imagination, informed by all that he gleaned of her thoughts and heart, composed a vivid picture nonetheless. In his mind's eye, he traced the contours of her face, recalling the shadows beneath her eyes, the taut line of her mouth that fought ever to deny the anxiety that wreathed her. Well-defined cheek bones emphasized her slenderness, bordering on gaunt, and her hair framed her face in a concealing manner. 

  


_Nay, not concealing_ , he corrected himself. _It is more a withdrawal, I think–a suppression of self, habitual now, but also intentional._ Denethor needed no further prodding to admit that he knew the cause of such withdrawal, that he himself was to blame. He regretted that, he supposed, for he did not wish her ill; indeed, he rarely thought overmuch of her, unless it were night. He could hardly deny that he desired her at times, but sex could be an awkward, embarrassing act, and her mood–often unpredictable–was a determining factor in whether or not either of them enjoyed themselves. Often, there was little more than relief to be gained in bed. 

  


_And that has little enough to do with the affection she seeks from me,_ he sighed. Truthfully, she was simply secondary in all his preoccupations, and her silent, yet obvious, pleas for his attention were a distraction, an inconvenience. _Yet if she were to disappear suddenly, I think I would not know what to do,_ Denethor thought, and surprised himself with such an acknowledgment. Still, to say that he loved her, to admit that, even within the carefully shielded privacy of his thoughts… that was difficult. He knew not what to call the strange emotion that burned low beneath the ice of logic, for it was different from what he felt for his father. That, at least, he knew was love; with Finduilas, there was a sense in which he could not get round her presence, certainly. She was _in_ him, bound up in diverse fashions to all that he was, yet it was… 'subtle,' that binding, and overshadowed by more overt ties.

  


_Such as these odd fits and her lingering malaise._ Denethor was not one to gainsay the healers of Minas Tirith who had diligently studied the matter of Finduilas's illness and come away puzzled. But though he was fundamentally incapable of fully comprehending its manifestations, at base he knew well that she sickened because of him. Perhaps such truth ought to inspire shame, but in Denethor there roused only a perplexed, somewhat contemptuous pity that his wife should love him to the point of making herself sick.   


_Perhaps what I feel for her is not love, but a strange fascination_ , he reflected, turning the notion over in his mind. For perplexity was certainly intermixed in large part with that other, unidentifiable emotion, and his was a mind attracted to paradox. Finduilas wanted so much to hide her misery from him, to be what and who he wanted her to be! And accustomed as he was to reading what others thought to keep hidden, he was stymied when presented with one who was willing to offer up so much of her self to him in a single instant and forever. In a moment, she confronted him with all that she was and invited him to claim her, if only he would make the same offer…

  


… and he balked at the very idea. Ecthelion, in his sharp remonstrations, had spared him not at all. "Perhaps you do not feel it yet, but such a marriage as yours will become a burden in time, and soon a torment, if you do not come to some understanding with Finduilas. If you cannot love her, then do not by your silence give her hope that you may. But if you would be her husband in truth, and not only in name, then you must surrender something to her, do you understand me? If you will not reject her outright, then be prepared to sacrifice that silence of yours," his father had warned. "Speak to her, my son!" And Denethor, plagued by that rebuke, haunted by the notion of losing his father's respect, had tried. As he had lain in bed with her last night, he had sought for words that might be appropriate, but in the end, he had given up. For he did not know yet whether he was willing to accept the offer contained in her eyes; and if he decided against it, still, he knew not how to tell her so gracefully. 

  
__

Perhaps there is no graceful way, however I choose. He sighed, and stared at the desk and at all of the chores that needed to be done. And though he felt no desire to return to his duty, feeling himself too weary and distracted to manage the task, neither did he wish to retire. For then he would have to face his wife once more, and he did not look forward to that encounter. _In the end, I know not what to make of her,_ Denethor grimaced, shaking his dark head slightly as he gazed out the window at the moon riding high above thin summer clouds. 

  


Minas Tirith, lit by that soft light, glowed with a muted, nocturnal radiance as the wind, like sighs, chased itself through the arterial streets. In moments such as this, when the city seemed almost as a living entity to him (albeit one that slept), he felt an odd stillness descend upon him, touching his thoughts with a sharp-edged clarity. 

  


_She will give herself away… snuff herself out like a candle's flame drowning in its own wax! And for what? For a husband? Why?_ The question was in some sense unanswerable, for though Denethor could justify spending himself in the service of his homeland, it seemed incredible to think that Finduilas could love him so well. _What am I, that she will not hold onto herself? What man is worth such a sacrifice? Or indeed, what woman? And yet, I do care for her and would not lose her entirely. But there lies so much pain between us, and there is so much to do…!_

  


Denethor had almost resolved to return to work when the door to his study burst open, and he looked up with a frown for such discourtesy. But his wrath died instantly, replaced by sudden dread, for the young lad who stood breathlessly now in his study was aid to one of the physicians, and his face was dead white as he gazed at Denethor. Wordlessly, Ecthelion's son rose to his feet, waiting for the news.

  


"My lord," the lad gasped. "Come quickly! My master sent me to fetch you and the lady Finduilas!"

  


Upon hearing that, Denethor hesitated, then made a swift decision. "Do not disturb the lady, but let us go now." The apprentice obeyed, and Denethor followed him up to Ecthelion's sickroom. And however dispassionately he had considered his father's death hitherto, now that the moment was upon him, he felt fear twist in his gut. Of one thing, though, he was certain: Finduilas should not be present to see this. It was, perhaps, an instinctive reaction, a defense against his own weakness where his affection for his father was concerned; but if there was that selfish element in it, he felt strongly also that his wife should not be made to watch one whom she loved well die–that that might prove too much for her precarious grasp on sanity. 

  


When he arrived, the physician rose and bowed, stepping into Denethor's path to halt him. "There is a draught upon the stand there," the man said gravely, in a low voice that commanded his lord's attention. "We can do nothing more, my lord, and the end is near, yet not near enough perhaps. But there is no need for him to suffer, if you will." Denethor's jaw clenched, understanding all too well the other's meaning.

  


"It must be his choice," he muttered, and the physician simply nodded, then beckoned his assistant to follow him out. The door shut behind father and son, and Denethor glided silently to the bedside, lowering himself to sit in Finduilas's accustomed chair. 

  


Ecthelion lay very still, his breathing shallow and congested. Very pale and drawn he looked, and he seemed unconscious. But after a moment, the dying man's eyes opened enough to take in Denethor's presence, and the steward wet his lips to speak. "Where is Finduilas?"

  


"I did not bring her," Denethor responded tautly. Ecthelion was silent awhile, but then he nodded slightly. 

  


"Good, I think. I would not cause her more pain," he whispered. "But you I would speak with, ere I end!"

  


"Speak then, Father," Denethor urged. 

  


"Mark me, I say! For you will swear...." Ecthelion paused, gasping for air. "You will swear to do as I bid… and then," he sighed and turned his head to look fully into his son's eyes, and a painful smile curved his lips, "then… I will take that cup from you." At that, Denethor bit his tongue and settled for a sharp nod. Born to a tradition that valued both the sword and the pen, he was not an 'unblooded virgin' as the saying went among the common soldiery; he had administered the coup de grâce all too often. _This is no different,_ he reminded himself. 

  


"I promise it shall be as you command!" Denethor replied softly.

  


"Then hear me, my son," Ecthelion whispered, "and then release me!"


	4. Matters of State

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Denethor and Finduilas. A perverse romancebe amazed that Boromir and Faramir turned out as well as they did! Rated for adult themes and sex/sexuality.

  


Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating by patches the bower of Denethor and Finduilas. As she had every morning for seven years, Finduilas woke alone to its warmth, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the light, and burying her face in her pillow. For a while, she lay thus, and her body felt heavy and inert. And sore, as she traced the line of bruises from throat to thigh; even if she wished to, she would be unable to forget the preceding night for quite some time. 

  


_What happened to us last night?_ she wondered, wincing at the memory. Reviewing all that had passed between them, she found it incredible that the two of them could sink to such appalling depths, for she was certain that alone, neither of them would have managed to fall so very low, no matter what the trial. _For seven years have I sought to look upon what lies beneath the stone-faced mask that my husband wears_ , she thought. _But I did not think to find the worst of him ere ever I knew the better. And what must he think of me now?_ For whatever else might be said of his behavior, it had been she who had been foolish enough to invite him to make love to her. _If love we may call it—he must think me utterly depraved!_

  


Finduilas groaned softly and pulled the covers up closer, reluctant to begin the day at all. Some mornings, if the night had been particularly bad, she simply lay abed 'til hunger or other needs drove her to rise. But after a few moments, she sighed and crawled out of bed, making for the wash room that opened off of their sleeping quarters. The water in the pitcher was cool, but she wet the towel and sponged herself off, feeling in need of at least a symbolic purification. 

  


The cloth chafed the bruises, and she gritted her teeth as she washed, gingerly, feeling at the hurts. In a few places, Denethor had actually broken the skin, though no lasting damage had been done. She wondered how he would react to the sight of her, to the literal embodiment of their mutual shame and madness. _Not well, that is certain!_ she decided, and had to suppress a spiteful wish that he had remained here long enough to see the marks that he had left on her. 

  
__

Ill-feeling breeds more ill-feeling, that we have proven, she sighed. _I suppose that I am not surprised that he did not stay: he is the Steward now, and until Ecthelion is laid to rest and he has taken up his duties formally, there will be many distracting tasks that nonetheless must be done. And whatever my feelings, my station requires me to play the part of help-meet and I may not shirk my duty. Nor shall I!_

  


Thus resolved, she began to lay out in her mind all that she would need to attend to, beginning with the children. For Boromir and Faramir must be told that their grandfather had died, and she would have to explain their father's new title. Pulling on a simple shift and skirt, she padded barefoot to the door and stepped into the outer room, where Lielwen, her maid, was accustomed to wait. "Good morning, Lielwen," she said absently, closing the door in her wake. 

  


"Good morning, my lady," replied a solemn voice to her right, and she whirled, eyes widening to behold Denethor seated in the window embrasure. From the stack of parchment and paper at his side, he clearly had not been idle, but it was unusual for him to work away from the bureau that graced one corner of the room. And there was in his eyes that which suggested he had been waiting for her, that there was in his presence here a private purpose. Finduilas felt as though her blood had congealed in an instant, rooting her to her place, and she could not seem to summon a response. Denethor's lips quirked in a humorless smile at her evident discomfiture, and said, "Sit down, Finduilas, ere you fall and give me further reason for shame!"   


Numbly, she obeyed, seating herself at the small table upon which stood two cups and a small kettle. Out of habit, she reached for the kettle, striving to regain her composure as he set aside his work and came to join her. Wordlessly, she poured out two cups and offered one to him, which he accepted gravely. Neither spoke, and Finduilas watched him carefully, wondering at him. _He looks terrible!_ she realized, for her husband seemed oddly tense this morning, and even a bit wan, as if from lack of sleep. Never taking her eyes from him, she raised the cup and had it but halfway to her lips ere she paused, frowning. _That scent…_! 

  


"What is this?" she demanded, feeling her heart beat faster. 

  


"Nothing with which you are unfamiliar," he responded flatly, sipping at his own ere he added, "Although I have heard that rue is more reliable than yarrow." Finduilas felt her jaw go slack as she realized that he knew–that he had known and likely for long–what she did. Quickly, she set the cup down again, fearing to drop it if she did not, and she clasped trembling hands in front of her as she drew a deep breath, seeking vainly for some way to explain herself. But nothing came to her, such was her astonishment over this latest revelation. _How could he know? I was so careful!_ Raising terrified eyes to his unreadable ones, she shook her head in mute disbelief. "Did you think me blind?" he asked softly in response to that look. 

  


"Denethor… I do not know what to say!" she murmured hoarsely. 

  


"Then say nothing, and drink your tea."

  


"But… are you not then…?" she stammered, feeling her anxiety unclench only slightly.

  


"Angry?" he suggested, arching a dark brow at her, and she nodded. "I suppose that I am. But whatever my thoughts on this matter, in this we ought to be in agreement: no child should be born of last night's pain. Whether we have more in the future is a matter for later debate." A pause. "Unless you feel differently…?"

  


It was probably the first time he had ever sought her opinion, but his words cut deep, and Finduilas felt her anger rouse at the somewhat patronizing tone. Indeed, a part of her was tempted to refuse solely for the sake of disobedience, but that impulse died swiftly before the onslaught of the haunting memories of the night before. So, rather than speak, she carefully picked the cup up once more and took a deliberate swallow of the aromatic liquid, watching him the while. The tea seemed to burn going down, and lay like acid in her stomach. Indeed, poison might have tasted sweeter on her tongue than this bitter tribute to failed love, but she held the awful thought of another pregnancy firmly in mind and ignored the discomfort. 

  


For awhile, they sat together in silence, and the tension spun itself out between them for neither seemed willing to look away first. Finally, Finduilas asked, "Why did you not send for me last night?"

  


"Could you have given him the draught that would kill him? Or watched another do so?" Denethor demanded, and she blanched. Her husband gave a soft grunt, as if to say _Well, then!_ , and Finduilas gritted her teeth. 

  


"I did not say I could not have! I would have liked to have been there to say farewell; you had no right to deny me that! And do not pretend that you thought only of me when you so decided, for I know you better than that," she continued on. "Will you deny that you wanted only to be alone? That if I had been there, you would not have been able to grieve as you needed to in that moment? Deny it if you can, Denethor, but a lie will tell, for though my mind wanders sometimes in madness and takes my body with it, still, there is clarity in the space between storms." A few moments longer, Denethor endured her sharp-eyed gaze, and then of a sudden, he looked away. It was her turn to grunt now, and she shook her head in disgust. "So I thought indeed! Have you a wife or a chattel, oh husband mine, that you will not deign to confide in her?" she asked bitterly. 

  


Minutes passed without a response, and Finduilas felt her anger dwindling, transmuting to an aching disappointment and sorrow for the icy barrier that remained between them even (or perhaps especially) now, when Ecthelion was not a day in the tomb. She could feel his pained humiliation and uncertainty and wondered why it was that they seemed condemned to share only the bitter. _Once, only just once, I would like to see him laugh–truly laugh! Or I would that he could have known me as I was in Dol Amroth, ere I came to this cold place. Perhaps naught would change, but just once I would know what it is to be bound to this man rather than held always at a distance._ She sighed softly, thinking of the many times that Ecthelion had advised her before and given her the strength to return to her husband's cool embrace. _Where now shall I find such strength? Whence comes courage if it be not born into a heart when the body is first made and the soul conceived?_

  


"He said I must ask your forgiveness for him."   


Finduilas blinked, confused by this soft-spoken declaration which seemed to come apropos of nothing. Denethor stared down at the tea leaves strewn in the bottom of his cup; his voice had been taut, laden with chagrin, and Finduilas needed several moments to work through what she had been told. 

  


"Ecthelion asked you… to ask my forgiveness… on his behalf?" She frowned, uncomprehending as her husband nodded mutely. "But I never held aught against him! Wherefore then needs–needed he my pardon?"

  


"He needed it for the past seven years," Denethor replied. "'Twas the Steward of Gondor who arranged our marriage, and so he asked your forgiveness for all that you have endured at my hands." Her husband managed to speak his part in a relatively even tone of voice, but at the end, he gave an odd cough and hastily drank the last of his tea in a transparent effort to cover the fact that his voice broke. Finduilas stared at him, and though she did not doubt Ecthelion's sincerity, she felt dazed by how ruthlessly he had used even his regret to teach his son an object lesson. 

  


"He has it, of course," she murmured, feeling torn between pity and a cold sense of vindication. _But by the Valar, I would not have thought Ecthelion had that in him! Mayhap now I can begin to guess whence comes the son's hard judgment!_ "Denethor—"

  


"You were more in his thoughts than I at the end, so…." he grated, cutting her off, clearly eager to finish this painful duty, and he leaned his elbows on the table, unable to meet her eyes. "So, if you could not say farewell, think not that he did not regret it. He paid more heed to your absence than my presence!" An uncomfortable pause followed, each trying to regain his or her balance, to achieve some measure of calm. Finduilas found herself wondering at her husband, feeling that she had somehow overlooked something vital in her time here. He seemed so very forsaken in this moment, and although she had expected him to grieve over his father's death, she had not dreamt in her worst nightmares of this level of anguish. _It is as if he feels he has lost something ere ever he tasted it truly… I wonder, how much was left unsaid between him and Ecthelion? Could this coldness of his have poisoned that love as well?_ she wondered. For what else could inspire in him regret?

  


Without conscious intention, she reached across the table and touched his hand. Denethor at first seemed not to notice, or else was bent upon ignoring the overture for a time. But in the end, just as Finduilas, with a sigh, began to withdraw, he quickly, almost convulsively, grasped her hand tightly in his, though he did not meet her eyes. _'Tis almost… jealousy_ , she decided. _Could it be that he is jealous of me, for the time that I spent with his father, and for my place in Ecthelion's last thoughts? I think it may be!_ She wondered that she had never seen that before, though given how little Denethor disclosed (unless it were very obliquely stated!) she supposed she ought not to be. "You have waited all this time here to tell me this? For your father's sake alone?" she asked softly.

  


"For his sake… because he asked it of me, that is why!" he replied harshly. "Think you that I would put myself through this for another?"

  


"Will you cast me off then, since clearly I am but little to you?" Finduilas asked quietly, and wondered if she would survive the answer. For after such a wrenching night, she doubted he would ever learn to be easy about her. _In many ways it would be far more… convenient… if he released me_ , she thought, forcing herself admit to that truth, trying in vain to prepare for it, feeling certain that that was her fate. _Gondor needs stability, and I am ill-equipped to provide such an illusion!_

  


"Ours is a political marriage, and so would our divorce be," he sighed, shaking his head. "I cannot let you go, Finduilas." A pause. Then again, but more softly as he risked looking at her again, "I cannot let you go. Strange to say it, but that is the truth, and would be even were Gondor not at issue." Denethor shook his dark head, gazing at her now with bemused puzzlement, while grief shone still bright in his intense gaze and Finduilas caught her breath.

  


"What do you mean?"

  


"I cannot say I love you," he told her bluntly, and his fingers about hers tightened slightly to the point of discomfort. "For I do not know whether that is true. And I cannot love you thus, if you seek ever to martyr yourself for affection that I may not have for you," Denethor sighed. "Do you understand what I say?"

  


"I do," she managed, quelling the pain as best she could. _This I knew already, or at least suspected. It may have come too late, but 'tis better that he say it than that it remain ever unspoken between us._ "And for my part, you must know, Denethor, that it takes but a word from you to make me doubt myself. To doubt everything, in fact," she replied. "But nevertheless, it will be some time ere I trust you again. Ecthelion I can forgive more easily than I can you."

  


Denethor nodded slowly, and after a moment he released her hand, just as the bells rang out, marking the hour and also reminding the citizens of the passing of Ecthelion. "We shall speak further on this when there is more time," he said when they had fallen silent once more. "There are others with whom I promised to speak ere noon, and that is but an hour removed. I trust you shall find some way to occupy yourself?"

  


"The children must be told of their grandfather's death," Finduilas sighed, steeling herself as she rose. "Boromir at least must be made to understand what has happened. Mayhap he shall have better luck explaining it to Faramir."

  


"Faramir is too young to understand," Denethor frowned, and Finduilas quirked a brow at him. 

  


"You have scarcely glanced at him all this year. He will understand, if we can but learn to speak to him, and Boromir already knows how to do that. If this is to work, Denethor, you must begin to take more of an interest in your sons," she admonished. "To birth them was pain enough, and I would not see my efforts in that endeavor ignored!"

  


"As I said, we shall talk more later," Denethor replied after a beat, and Finduilas sighed, knowing that she could ask no more of him than that. _But at least now I know that there shall be a later!_

  


It was little enough, but it was a beginning. 


	5. Lay to Rest Uneasy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Denethor and Finduilas. A perverse romancebe amazed that Boromir and Faramir turned out as well as they did! Rated for adult themes and sex/sexuality.

  


The bells pealed out their sad tale as they marked another hour that drew Minas Tirith towards dawn. _The Steward is dead, long live the Steward!_ It had been some two hours since Ecthelion had passed away, and for the first half an hour, the bells had rung almost continuously, alerting all within the walls and even those far below upon the field of Pelennor of the end of his reign. Woken from her sleep by the clamor, Finduilas had sat still in bed, weeping silently for a long while, and listening to the voices that drifted up from the streets: men calling to each other as they ran, plans and contingencies set in motion with the ringing of those fatal bells, all of them the sounds of Gondor scrambling in the wake of tragedy. 

  


At last, though, she had arisen, pulling her sash tight to seal her robe against chill, and gone quietly out into the outer chamber that served as a second study and gathering space for Denethor and herself. _Ecthelion is gone, and I was not there to say farewell._ She bowed her head. _I should have remained with him tonight! He was so very weak this evening, scarcely able to speak.... Why did I not stay?_ Shame suffused her, not least because she knew that she had been afraid to remain, and that Ecthelion had sensed that when he had sent her away. 

  


But Ecthelion's motives were not in question, and the more she brooded upon the matter, the darker her emotions grew, until she was uncertain whether she needed to throw up or weep in angry hurt, so strong was her reaction to the thought of her husband. For she knew that he must have been at Ecthelion's side when the old steward had died, and that he had not sent for her. More, he had doubtless ordered others to leave her in ignorance until it was too late. _And I know him too well to believe that he thought of my feelings when he did so!_ That he had deliberately shut her out at such a time burned like acid in her veins, and she leaned heavily against a table as her knees suddenly gave out. The world began to spin before her eyes, and it seemed that the room began to shrink....

  


_No!_ Finduilas shivered convulsively and forced herself to remain unbowed, fighting the impending fit. _I must not weaken! I will not! If I do, then I shall never have another chance…!_ A chance at what, she was not wholly certain, but she knew that she had come here to wait, and she refused to greet the unknown or half-known event in a state of collapse. She did sit down, however, and grim thoughts, shot through with wrath, flowed and ebbed within her. 

  


_When will Denethor come?_ The question remained, solid as a rocky isle alone in a tempest, and she let her anger collect upon that tardiness. _Why does he wait? Or does he think to stay out all night?_ That was a possibility, but though he had the habit of working through the night when crises arose, she thought that he was unlikely to do so tonight. _Nay, for he will want time alone, and that means he will come here. To him, I am no more than a furnishing for this room, a statue I supppose, though still he pushes me away. But tonight the statue will speak!_

  


And oh, how she longed to flay him to the quick with her pain! If only she could retain that rage that had gone so long without expression, if she could but harness the frustration of seven years' silence, then she might at least make him aware that she bled, too, in her grief. But it was difficult, for frustration was bound fast with fear, and rage with crushing disappointment, and she struggled against undermining herself. If she let her emotions play freely, she risked inciting one of her strange fits. Yet without their raw force, she doubted she would find the strength to give voice to her complaints.

  


And so she sat perfectly still, hands laid precisely upon the chair's arms and she fought to maintain that precarious balance between feeling and folly, clinging to her brittle composure. In the sea-swell of emotion, her heightened senses took in minutely detailed observations, threatening to overwhelm her with a wealth of information: the air itself seemed to press against her skin; the thick, acrid scent of the wood as it burned in the fireplace was almost cloying; and the very silence grew to be loud in and of itself to her ears. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and each heart beat seemed to stretch itself out, unfolding in time rather than punctuating it. At last, however, she heard someone approaching in the hall outside, and she felt tension draw tight as a wire within her as fearful anticipation gripped her. 

  


The door opened and in stalked Denethor, and the atmosphere in the room changed radically. The silence seemed to freeze and harden, and Finduilas felt a chill sweep through her, as if he had trailed a winter's storm in his wake. He did not seem to notice her at first, and was halfway across the room ere she finally spoke: "Did you pass a sweet hour with your father?" He stopped in his tracks, but did not turn, and she sensed that he was loath to face her. That gave her courage, feeding her newborn fury, and she rose. "Have you wept your last, my lord, or do you come here to cry again where no other will see you?" she demanded sharply as she crossed to stand before him, trembling slightly. 

  


"I do not wish to speak of it, Finduilas!" he responded wearily, sounding vaguely irritated by her, and he brushed past her, continuing on to their sleeping chambers. But having found the strength to speak at last, she was not about to grant him peace enough to regain himself, and she followed him doggedly.

  


"Did you think of me at all when you went to his side? Or did you remember that you have a wife—and one who loved your father well!—only after he had passed on? Did you remember only when you walked through that door?" she demanded harshly, feeling anger and grief come boiling up with such force she could barely contain them. Her vision started to blur, and she shook her head violently, struggling with herself. "Have you no shame at all?!"

  


"Finduilas!" Denethor snapped, turning on her with darkly glittering eyes. A moment she quailed before the sense of threat he conveyed, and then her wrath flared white hot. Ere she knew what she did, she strode quickly up to him and slapped him—hard!—across the face. Shock held both of them immobile for several moments, and Finduilas heard her own ragged breathing fall harshly into the stunned silence. _What have I done?_ She shook her head as if in denial, unable to comprehend her own action, yet unable to rescind it either. As Denethor blinked and rocked back on his heels, she could feel her rage drain steadily away, as if she had invested all of it in that slap and had exhausted it in an instant. Grief and hurt still remained, though, and as shock began to ease back, those twin emotions filled the void and she felt herself dragged down by them. 

  


With a groan on the edge of a sob, she buried her face in her hands, feeling the tears burn her eyes. What followed seemed to her almost unreal: for on the one hand, she was utterly at the mercy of her emotions, and on the other, she felt oddly separated from herself, as if a part of her watched her own evolution in disbelieving horror. As she began to recoil, Denethor caught her biceps in a tight grip and she fairly threw herself against him, in need of physical support as much as in frustrated grief. Startled by this unexpected shift, he staggered, stumbling against the edge of the bed. "What madness is this?" he demanded, sounding bewildered as well as angry, and as she clawed at his shirt, tearing the flesh beneath, he caught both wrists in an attempt to restrain her. But Finduilas, rather unaccountably, now struggled against him, her mood changing once again in an instant as she was struck by a sudden loathing of his touch.   


"Leave me be! Will you never cease to torment me?!" she shrieked hysterically, writhing and twisting in his grasp. With an oath, Denethor pulled her against him, trying to get a firm grip on her, and her frenzy increased. Instinctively, she threw an elbow back into his ribs, and he swore again as she lunged, throwing all her weight against his arms in a desperate attempt to escape him. 

  


But in the end, his strength was vastly greater than her own and he had the advantage of his training as well. She gasped as he shifted his grip to grab her one-armed about the waist and lifted her bodily off the ground. Her squirming threw his balance off, but she still ended up lying on her back on the bed with him leaning hard over her, using his body as well as his arms to hold her down. Finduilas felt the last of her manic strength give way as grief wholly consumed her, and she went completely limp. Denethor's breathing grated harsh in her ears, and his weight seemed to crush the breath from her body, but he said nothing—not a word in either rebuke or anger, and perversely that only hurt the worse. _I am so little to him that I cannot even earn his open contempt!_

  


A half-strangled whimper escaped her, and Denethor hissed, then eased back slightly, as if he had realized in that instant that he was suffocating her. But Finduilas clutched at him convulsively now, fearing now to lose him entirely. "Finduilas…" he began, exasperated, but sounding oddly desperate himself now, and she blinked til she could see him clearly again. His expression bespoke utter confusion and a mixture of anger, frustration, grief.... _And shame?_ He tried to speak again, paused, shook his head as if rejecting whatever he had been about to say. "Tell me what you want!" he said at last. It was a simple enough request, and one that she had longed to hear from his lips ever since she had come to live with him. And yet....

  


"I do not know!" she murmured pathetically, and he closed his eyes in resignation, bowing his head. For a moment, they remained thus, and Denethor seemed certain to withdraw into that deeply shrouded place within his soul. Finduilas hated the very thought that he would leave her alone again, but she knew that there was nothing she could say to prevent it. _Words always fail me!_ Desperate, she reached out and laid a hand upon his chest, then hesitated. Wisdom might have dictated a different course, but she had passed beyond the pale of wisdom long ago, and so she drew her hand down his chest and then began to unbuckle his belt.   


Denethor tensed, and if she had thought him confused before, she knew better now. In point of fact, she was not certain that she did right, for it was a rare night when both came away from coitus satisfied. Sometimes there was pain; often, there was awkwardness, but despite the drawbacks, sex was all she could think of that might hold him here with her tonight. 

  


For his part, Denethor stared down at his wife, baffled by her behavior, feeling badly out of his depth for perhaps the first time in his life. His chest smarted where her nails had raked him, grief ran bitter through his veins, and the turmoil that roiled within him was more than unaccustomed–it was wholly alien to him. Had he been just a step closer to rational, perhaps he would have listened to that part of his mind that warned against responding to her obvious intentions. But he, like she, could no longer stomach rationality. Not in this moment, when impulse seemed the only guide he had left. Besides, his body had long ago proved that it cared little for logic! 

  


With a soft groan, he reached down and quickly untied the sash that held her robe closed, slipping the garment from her shoulders. Heat flared pleasantly deep within him at the sight of her, and he drew a shaky breath that had as much to do with nervousness as with arousal. At the same time, Finduilas dropped the belt over the side of the bed, then slid his trousers off over narrow hips, trailing a caress down his thigh as she did so and her touch seemed to burn…!

  


Finduilas felt her heart pounding, and as she drew Denethor's shirt off over his head, she sought to banish the butterflies that flitted nervously in her belly. A shiver crept up her spine as smooth skin, kissed with gold firelight, slid warm against her as he drew her into a fierce embrace. Lips sought her mouth, eager, hungry, desperately needy, and then trailed bruising kisses down her neck to her breast. Her hands on his arms tightened their grip, nails digging into iron biceps when he bit slightly too hard. Dark hair, worn at shoulder length, tumbled close about his face, and as his mouth moved over her body, she caught her breath. The silky strands brushed against her bare skin, their softness a sharp contrast to the body she stroked.

  


Tangling her fingers in his hair, she closed her eyes and hoped that she could keep up with him. For Denethor could be a very impatient lover, and she sensed that he was in no mood now to restrain himself. And though it had been she who had begun this, her doubts made it difficult for her to focus, especially given how rough his caresses were tonight. Still, she responded to his touch, endeavoring to simply abandon herself to physical sensation, to the feel of his body under her hands, to the delicious friction as they moved against each other. 

  


But pain jarred her too often for her to truly surrender: a nip became a bite, or he gripped her too hard, forcing her to fight him somewhat until she became accustomed to the pressure. "Mmf… Denethor…stop!" she gasped as he pushed her legs apart firmly. Her back arched in pain as his fingers dug into her lower back, just to one side of her spine. He caught her in a smothering embrace, holding her down as he thrust against and into her, and Finduilas, still unready, bit her lip so hard against an outcry that she tasted blood. Her vision blurred with tears of pain and she shut her eyes, willing herself to last in silence until he was done at least.   


But some tears will not hold—because the wound has been prodded too often or runs too deep, and she felt them slide hot from beneath her lashes and down her cheeks as the sobs escaped quietly from her lips. She felt his crotch hard against hers, felt him inside her as he moved, and the hand he slipped down to her hip was bruising. Finduilas choked on her pain, but he was too strong for her, almost savagely crushing her down, and she felt something hot and wet spatter on her breast. Confusion surfaced, but only briefly ere she pushed it aside, intent upon trying to outlast her husband's attentions. 

  


Denethor gave a soft, explosive gasp that modulated to a low moan as he reached his climax, and she felt his full weight upon her of a sudden. For a while, they lay thus, he with his head upon her breast, seeming exhausted, and she struggling to calm herself, to let the hurt run off of her like water… like her own tears. Preoccupied with her own pathetic condition, it needed some minutes for her to realize that she did not weep alone. She could feel her husband's sobs, silent and restrained, rack him and Finduilas caught her breath in surprise. "Denethor?" she managed thickly, and felt him go rigid in her arms. He began to draw away from her, but she tightened her grip now. "Do not you dare to turn away now! Is it not enough that the Stewa… that Ecthelion is gone?" she demanded. "Do not shut me out after… after…." Unwilling to worsen matters with an ill-chosen word, Finduilas trailed off, but he finished for her.

  


"After I raped you?" he demanded harshly, fairly sick with shame.

  


In the flickering light, she stared at him and responses crowded thickly on her tongue til she felt that she would burst if she did not speak. But none of them would change this night, nor any of the nights that had come before, nor indeed the years that had comprised their bitter marriage, and she grimaced. "Oh, speak no more of it!" she entreated in a low voice. "Only for once, do not let me sleep alone in this bed, I beg you!"

  


"You might have said that in the first place!" Denethor sighed softly, but that was all. And somewhat to her surprise, he obeyed. Rather than turning away from her, he simply eased to one side, leaving one arm draped lightly about her waist and she felt his breath gust against her neck. 

  


It was not a comfortable night that they passed by any means, but when at last Finduilas did sleep, it was the first time in years that she did not dream.


End file.
